Which of the following sports has the longest season: a) golf b) cricket c) Masterchef d) football? The question can be multiply answered because every week of the year (if you include Legends and Beach Football, which you can hardly not) it is possible to watch people competing at golf, cricket, mastercheffing or football.

Given all this activity, it is inevitable that two worlds can often collide and because this kind of nonsense will only become more prevalent, last Tuesday night's collision merits proper analysis.

Over to the breathiest of voiceover merchants, India Fisher: "It's the final week in the search for a Professional Masterchef. Marianne, Daniel and Steve are the last chefs standing. But only one of these gifted chefs can walk away with the championship title ..."

"Chhaaawgh," says Gregg Wallace, "they are going to have step up. They are cooking for VIPs at a corporate event in one of the country's leading sporting arenas. That sort of lunch does not come cheap." The arena is Chelsea Football Club. The cost of the lunch is never revealed.

"The game is going to kick off at three o'clock," says "culinary legend" Michel Roux Jr. "They expect to be fed on time." They being "16 VIPs, including James Cracknell and Kevin Pietersen", who, as is expected from judges, know nothing about their subject of supposed expertise.

Roux Jr, like Dean Waugh, isn't even the second-best performer in his family and, unlike Waugh, possesses all the televisual charm of Ruth Watson. Throughout, he chivvies everyone while uttering his banal catchphrase "it could do with a little more seasoning" without ever considering the fairly minimal effort required to add a twist of salt or pepper to his food.

The language of Masterchef proves to be very similar to the language of sport: games are upped, bars are raised and prawns are de-veined. The cliches are satisfyingly unrelenting: "He has always known flavour ... that's yummy food ... obviously you are only as good as your last meal ... Steve's story today was a tale of two dishes."

Further comfort can be taken from the VIPs behaving entirely to type with Pietersen MBE entering "the £1m corporate box hosted by Adidas managing director Gil Steyaert" brandishing his car keys in a manner which screamed swingers party. As Adidas's slogans have it: "Impossible is Nothing" or, perhaps, "Believe in Five". Cracknell OBE had his shirt untucked, which I readily admit is a sentence of almost poetic dullness. And so, verbatim, to the full banality of the cook-off. First: "Marianne hopes her crowns of English asparagus, poached pheasant eggs, and a morel and spring black truffle dressing are light, balanced and delicious." Are her hopes to be fulfilled?

"Yeah, the starter looks pretty good" is the verdict of Pietersen. "I don't know how it is going to taste. Asparagus and eggs, different combination, one I have never had before but I am looking forward to trying it."

"Lot of asparagus. It's nice," says Cracknell.

Second: "Daniel is looking to impress with his roast lamb with basil polenta, grilled aubergines and courgettes and beetroot syrup." Does he impress? "This is magnificent," says KP. "Meat. Absolutely perfect. It's fantastic. I like it. Real good." Cracknell keeps his counsel.

"The combination is magnificent," says KP. "Absolutely love it. I want some more." And it is left to judge Pietersen, still wearing his baseball cap, to deliver the summing up. "On behalf of everybody I think we thoroughly enjoyed our lunch this afternoon. The combination of the starter [really, really good, they were put together fantastically well], the main course [the meat was fantastic] and I think everybody enjoyed their desserts … thank you so much and I hope you guys go OK. Good on yer."

"It was awesome, thanks," says Cracknell. "And good luck. Hope you get through."

Which, given they were in the final, is the most idiotic comment made at a sporting event since Margaret Thatcher, reading from the programme, elected the injured Trevor Whymark man of the match in the 1978 FA Cup final. That's the problem with cross-fertilisation, too many bluffers winging it.